Nevermore
by Asharak
Summary: NOTE: this is so bloody old... and it sucks donkey scrotum. But it's my first work, and I'm sort of proud of it. Read if you dare.This is a story about a young man on a collision course with a dark and sinister fate.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

The door shook. The windows were broken. Rotting hands dug into the walls and emerged on the other side, fingernails coated with blood. Frightened voices echoed in the chapel, as their owners feared that their end is near. People huddled together shuttered like leaves in autumn, aware that their time has come but still clinging to their lives, hoping they could make it through the cold darkness ahead. Smoke slowly came through the windows, colored bright red by the flames of burning houses. It was hard to breathe, the oxygen slowly sapped by the four braziers that kept the men from freezing. If the undead wouldn't kill them, the lack of air would, and they'd all be food, or worse, more soldiers for the forsaken army quickly advancing upon their lands.

The people were too frightened to speak, but their faces spoke for them. The men stepped forward, faced the busted-up door and drew their swords while the women cradled their babies in their arms to stop them from crying. At least this was a chapel, the men thought, and the holy light shall give them strength to fight. At the very least, they would be a diversion to allow their wives and children to flee.

The door shook once more, and the supports cracked. They would not hold for long.

Another strike, and then another, and the support beam broke. The door swung inward in a wide arc to make way for the flood of hideous hunchbacked creatures that thirsted for blood. The first line of defenders thrust their swords forward, impaling several creatures, but more came, climbing over their dead comrades' corpses. Long-fingered arms grasped necks and broke them with ease; wicked fangs tore flesh off bones. Armor would have made no difference, and the valiant defenders had none. The beasts fell at even greater speed, but their sheer numbers made it seem like none had died. The women, shocked by this vast onrush of nightmarish creatures, ran toward the side door, hoping, and at the same time fearing, that their husbands took the brunt of the attack.

Outside the door were many gravestones, split by a stone path on which stood a cloaked man. He just stood there, gazing at the red sky.

A dark cloud moved away, and the graveyard was bathed in white moonlight. The man's cloak spread into two batlike wings, his eyes glowed red and he charged, headfirst, into the nearest woman. She made a feeble attempt to dodge, and felt two sharp horns impaling her. He rose; the woman still upon his horns, and started clawing and tearing at the nearby women. One young mother dropped to her knees, crawled hidden behind gravestones, and placed her son into an open grave.

"Stay here and you'll be safe," she told him, then crawled off to hide again as the monster turned his head.

The last he heard were screams of agony and a blood spatter on the blank gravestone above him. Then his eyes closed and all faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: The temple Stableboy**

As the sun slowly rose to its highest point above the great plains, a caravan of armored horsemen slowly made their way towards their home, the Temple of the Holy Light, to the great dismay of the many apprentice soldiers. Their job was to remove the heavy armors from their bearers, unsaddle the horses, brush them, clean them, feed them. It wasn't pleasant work, but they still had to do it. What was the use? These weren't their horses and they would never be. They were too expensive, and no apprentice had any money. All they'd get out of it was to learn how to wield a sword. What was the use?

These were the thoughts of all young boys that resided in the temple, save for one young lad named Neron, whose apprenticeship was finally over. He was happy, for sure, but also insecure. Throughout these six years he did menial labor, but it was something he liked, because of the horses. Every day he'd get up, eat his bowl of gruel and get to cleaning Inferno. That was his horse, a beautiful red-maned stallion with rust-colored hair and he was something he could count on. Jumping out of the loop of everyday life seemed the right choice, but still he wasn't sure if he could get accustomed to new surroundings, a new lifestyle. Was an armor, a sword, and a dirty old mule a worthy trade for his safety, and for Inferno?

He smiled in spite of himself. Is this the way he wants to live his life, as an errand boy? No, he decided, and with strengthened resolve walked slowly back to the stables. It's going to be a long day.

While he was busy cleaning the hinder portion of an apprentice paladin's horse, an old man dressed in gray entered the stables. His beard was neatly trimmed and he walked with the spread-legged stance of a man who was born on horseback. The most peculiar thing about him was that he almost radiated with an energy which made every ache in a person's body smaller. He walked slowly across the dirty wooden floor and inclined his head slightly before each apprentice, his gaze resting on the vacant space between horse and groom. He stopped just in front of Neron.

"That's a beautiful horse you got there, young lad. Is it, by any chance, yours?"

"No, sir," he answered, finally noticing the man, "Inferno belongs to the sire Thunderwraith."

"Really? I thought he had a more... muscular horse. Namely that one over there," he pointed to another horse, this one white with a golden mane.

"Midas is also his, sir," he sighed. Inferno never left the stables, forever a backup horse for a rich noble, and was fat because of it, but Neron loved him anyway, "Some people are just too lucky."

"That they are, young one. That they are. I'll tell you what - you meet me at sundown in front of the chapel, and we'll see about getting you your own horse."

Neron, greatly startled, bowed graciously to the old man. A horse! His very own horse!

Then a thought came to him.

"Sir, but I thought only Paladins..." but before he could finish his sentence, the old man was gone.

Neron looked out the stable door. He did that at least once every minute now, because he saw it was getting dark. His curiosity got the better of him, he thought, but still could not avert his eyes from the door, half hoping the sun would just plummet down so he could go and claim his horse, and half dreading that man was not what he appeared to be.

Then he realized something, and the undeniable truth of it hit him like a brick. How was he ever going to sneak out? Children are not allowed out after sunset, and it was a rule few would break. And there were at least twenty other boys in the stables, and they would surely notice him pass. Was it worth it, anyway? What did this old man have to give him, anyway? Only an empty promise. And what if he was an inquisitor? The questions just kept appearing, and every time he would form any semblance of a plan, a fact always appeared. What if the man had no intention of giving him a horse? What if he was an inquisitor? Should he risk everything because of a promise?

Then he remembered his thoughts at lunch. This is not the way he wanted to live his life, and if there were consequences, he would just have to face them head-on. If he's going to break out of the loop, he could at least do it in style.

Under the light of the crescent moon, a twelve-year old boy snuck out of the stables, nimbly dodging monks and armored guards alike. it was raining that night, yet the sky was unusually clear. Lightning pierced the sky and revealed the tall, thin form of the boy to two deep blue eyes, watching from behind a half-open door. His hair was wet from the rain, and his green eyes told of anticipation. Lightning struck again, but the boy was already behind the chapel door, which closed with the loud bang of stone on stone.

"Is this the one you told me about, Ezalor?"

"Unusual, isn't he? His face speaks of deep thoughts, and he glows in the Light."

"Yet there is sadness somewhere deep within his heart. A childhood memory, no doubt."

"One who knows sadness does his best to prevent it from reaching others."

"We should know."

"Enough talk. Let us see what the sword has to say."

It was cold inside. The marble walls cooled in the instant the rain started to fall, and it seemed to have snuffed out the two torches that should be burning behind the altar. The rain poured in through the leaky roof at alarming speed.

"Why didn't they make a stone roof?" Neron said out loud, and almost toppled over, alarmed at the booming sound of his own voice echoing throughout the chapel. He looked around, trying to find the old man. It was a small chapel, only big enough to hold three or four men, and the most of it was taken by the great stone altar of the Holy Light. Then he noticed something peculiar. The water was flowing into a gap between the altar and the ground. He pushed the altar away and looked into the square opening over which the altar fit perfectly. Light illuminated the bottom, faint golden light flickering like a torch. He pushed the altar completely aside and jumped into the hole, landing on his hands and knees, up to his elbows in water. And then he saw the source of the light. A sword whose blade looked like it was made of pure light hovered above a pedestal in the middle of the room. Its hilt was made of ivory, inset with rubies that formed four runes, reciting an ancient war song. Without even thinking, he walked towards it and grasped the hilt.

Outside, everyone was staring at the small chapel, whose every window was broken by the sudden outburst of white light, as a girl of golden hair wondered about the boy she saw sneak into it.

"The Radiance has chosen," said the old man he saw in the stables. He held onto the ladder, with one hand beckoning towards Neron, "Come now, Neron, Paladin of the Holy Light, and receive your blessing."


End file.
